


Step One

by Always_Worth_It



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brother Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:51:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Worth_It/pseuds/Always_Worth_It
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finally hits rock bottom with his drinking problem and Sam gets hurt as a result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step One

When he woke up, he wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep.

 

That was becoming more common these days, if Dean was being honest with himself. But he wasn’t honest with himself very often, which is how he was in this mess, anyway.

 

It was still dark, so he figured it must be some time in the middle of the night. It was summer, so the daylight hours were long. Sam had always hated the summer growing up, Dean recalled, since it meant no school to keep them in one place and no escape from the training and crappy motels and diners along endless stretches of road.

 

But Sam was on the road with Dean permanently, now. They had years of teamwork and partnership behind them now, despite all the changes their relationship had gone through in that time.

 

It started when Sam died and Dean sold his soul to get his baby brother back. When he had died and come back from Hell, his brother had been gone. Sam had still been alive. Still hunting, still strong and fierce. But he hadn’t been Sam anymore. He had been drinking demon blood and acting like the principles they protected their whole lives didn’t matter.

 

Then he had started the Apocalypse. They had fought the demons they spent their lives working to oppose, and added angels in the mix. And Sam had died again, and lost his soul upon returning. He was here and finally whole, finally Sam again, but now Dean felt himself slipping under the weight of everything that had happened to them.

 

They didn’t talk about it. It was the Winchester way of life. Don’t talk about your feelings, just push them down, and failing that, drown them in whiskey and bourbon until you can’t remember what was ever wrong to begin with.

 

Dean had never truly hated his father until the day he realized he had become him.

 

But he drank. Constantly. He could see Sam looking sideways at him as he downed another glass of whatever the poison of the night was, but Sam never said anything.

 

The memories of Hell still swirled in his head, toxic and clawing to get out and infect him, drag him back to the pit, bring him to the Cage where he knew Sam had burned for centuries. The deaths on their hands--Ellen and Jo, Ash, Pamela, Dad, Rufus, Bobby, and so many more--weighed heavily on his mind. There was an ache that nothing could fix, so he numbed it and waited for everything to just end and let him go.

 

By trying to keep out the memories of hellfire and torture, Armageddon and empty promises, he had started to erase his memories of the present, as well.

 

He lay where he was, unsure of where exactly that was--probably the bed back at the motel, since his instincts weren’t screaming danger--staring at the ceiling that looked like any other ceiling and trying to recall what had happened before he had passed out.

 

He thought he remembered being on a hunt, but there was no way he had been sleeping peacefully after a hunt without remembering how it all ended. After every hunt he made it his job to make sure Sam was okay, really okay, with no nightmares or hallucinations or flashbacks to disturb him. Sam always said Dean wasn’t a morning person and slept really late, but honestly Dean waited hours after Sam’s breathing evened out before allowing himself the four hours he got each night.

 

There had been a hunt, though. Of that, he was certain. They had been looking for a ghost who was compelling people in the town to kill their best friends, and they had found her. It was a girl who had committed suicide a few months earlier after her best friend had stolen her boyfriend, coming back to kill her friend before going crazy and vengeful and making other stupid kids do the same. It was a stupid case, with stupid people involved, and Dean had been looking forward to having a nice, simple salt-and-burn on their hands.

 

He remembered them locating and digging up the grave, but after that, he couldn’t recall anything. Just waking up here with the need to get a drink and the itch in his fingers that told him it had been a few hours since his last.

 

He rolled over and groped around in the dark until he found the edge of the nightstand of the motel room. Okay, at least he knew where he was. He fumbled for a few moments more and located the switch to the bedside lamp. It was late and Sam was probably asleep and would be a little bitch about it, but he flipped the switch, anyway.

 

The weak bulb flickered into use, and Dean blinked for a moment to adjust to the sudden slight light. His head throbbed a little like he maybe had a bit of a hangover, but that was unlikely, considering what his alcohol tolerance was as of late.

 

That wasn’t important, though, because his attention was suddenly fixated entirely on Sam.

 

Sam was asleep in the other bed, as always, but this time it didn’t look peaceful. His nose was swollen and red, as if he had been hit in the face, and he had a black eye. Cuts and scratches ran the length of his cheeks, as if someone had clawed at him. Even in his sleep, one of his arms rested at an awkward angle as if it was injured, maybe dislocated and popped back into place wrong. The blanket was covering only one of his legs, and the one that Dean could see poking out from the bed was wrapped in gauze and bandages that told him there were bloody wounds as well as a sprained or twisted ankle.

 

Sam was a wreck.

 

Dean sat bolt upright and stumbled over to Sam’s bed. He hit it hard, falling to his knees and shaking Sam before he realized it might be better to leave him in his temporary escape from the pain.

 

“Sam? Sammy! Wake up, man. Get up!” he barked, hating the gruff tone of his father in his voice but not knowing how to drop it.

 

Sam startled out of sleep a bit more slowly than he should have, given their lives and training, and that alone would have been enough to scare Dean on any other day even when Sam wasn’t beat to hell.

 

“Wha? What’s happening? Everything okay?” Sam garbled, still woozy and probably under the influence of relatively heavy painkillers.

 

“Everything okay? Sammy! You’re torn to shreds, dude. What the hell happened?”

 

Sam blinked stupidly as he tried to figure out what Dean was going on about. No, Dean realized after a moment of blank staring, Sam wasn’t playing dumb, he was looking at Dean as if he was the stupid one.

 

“What do you remember?” Sam finally asked, carefully not revealing anything.

 

“I remember digging up the chick who was killing people and then waking up here and finding out you look like you’ve been to Hell again. And believe me, I would know. So quit stalling and spill,” Dean grumbled, desperately wanting another drink before having this conversation.

 

“Well, we dug up the grave,” Sam repeated, looking uncomfortable about sharing more. “And I got a little banged up when the kid showed up to try to stop us from torching her. It happens, Dean. It’s no big deal.”

 

“Then why the hell don’t I remember any of this going down? And how did we get back here, anyway?”

 

Sam pulled a royally pissed bitchface. “Gee, I don’t know, maybe because you passed out drunk halfway through digging her up? So I finished the job with no one to watch my back, and no one warned me that she was practically on top of us until it was too late? And then I dragged your ass back here and patched myself up and was trying to sleep it off while you sobered up before your next bottle of Jack! I mean, seriously, Dean. I figured I might have to watch my own back if you got sucked in by her ghost mojo and tried to kill me, but I never thought that you were dangerous on your own!”

 

“What? That’s crazy, Sam. There’s no way I passed out like that!” Dean argued, putting more heat into his words than he felt. He really didn’t remember any of that, and with the way he was itching for the bottle like Sam said, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe there was some truth to what Sam was saying.

 

“Really, Dean? There’s no way that a man who hasn’t been completely sober in months finally got so hammered that he passed out on the job? You sure about that?”

 

Dean hated when Sam phrased his disapproval as a question like that. It made him feel like he was being tested, and especially in this case, failing.

 

But there were more pressing concerns right now. He had let Sam get hurt?

 

Ever since Sam was born, Dean’s job had been to look out for him. Even before Mom had died, Dean had taken care of Sammy. He had played with him and kept him from getting into trouble. He taught him how to roll over and calmed him when he cried.

 

When they had started living on the road after he carried Sam from their burning home, Dean learned to be a parent as he fed and dressed Sam. He taught him to crawl and eventually how to walk. Dad had been passed out drunk and grieving, but Dean had stood as tall as he could and held Sam’s chubby little hands as he teetered around the motel room on wobbly baby legs. He taught Sam to talk, the baby’s first word being “Dee,” which was a clear attempt at Dean’s name and not at “Dad.”

 

He helped Sam stay safe when he didn’t know about the awful things out there in the world. He taught him to count and to read, to tie his shoes and to evade the attention of the authorities. He helped him with his homework and he made sure there was always food available even when Dad was away and there wasn’t enough money.

 

He had trained Sam and kept him safe on hunts. He helped him make friends at school. He kept an eye on his little brother even when Sam didn’t realize he was being helped. He saved Sam again when another home burned to ash around him, and retrained him to keep him sharp and safe back in the Life.

 

He watched Sam die and felt that he had failed in a way that no man had ever done before, spectacularly blowing the one thing that had ever given his sorry existence any meaning. He sold his soul to give his baby brother another chance, one that Dean wouldn’t ruin for him again. He died for Sam and gladly spent decades in Hell because he knew that it meant Sam was okay.

 

He was brought back and still couldn’t save Sam when it turned out the biggest threat was Sam himself. He let him fall down a dark path and instead of pulling him out, he wallowed in his own pain and let Sam slip further away from him. He knew he had hurt Sam worse than either of them had ever imagined possible. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised that when it came down to it, Sam ignored his apology and trusted Ruby instead. But then he died, sacrificed himself to save the world from his mistakes, and came back again. Sure, he had no soul, but Dean fixed that, too, because he couldn’t leave his baby brother in the Cage if there was even a chance he could save him. Then finally, finally, Dean was sure that his little brother was back, really back, and they were going to fix things once and for all.

 

Dean’s entire being was founded on his ability to take care of Sam, but once more, he had failed and Sam had gotten hurt.

 

He lurched up from where he knelt by Sam’s bed and barely reached the bathroom in time to lose what felt like every burger he had ever eaten into the toilet. He stayed there retching for until finally was no more left in his stomach to expel.

 

His gut ached, empty and sore from his heaving. His breathing was heavy and there was sweat breaking out across his brow. His hands were shaking worse than before, but this time he didn’t think it was because of withdrawal. The exertion of the last few moments had exhausted him and he rested his head on his hands against the cool porcelain, hoping the world would stop spinning.

 

A big, warm hand tentatively touched his back. “Sam,” he moaned, not sure what he was really asking for, but knowing that his brother’s name meant security in a life where that was so rare. “Help. I need...I need to stop.”

 

“Shh,” came Sam’s voice from somewhere behind him. “It’s okay, Dean. I can do that. We can get you help. I’m here. Dean, it’s going to be alright.”

 

“Sam,” he gasped again, only to be shushed and coddled once more.

 

Sam kept up the comforting litany even though neither of them were really paying attention to the actual words he was spilling. The important part was his gentle hand rubbing up and down Dean’s back, his soothing tone, his presence, the fact that he was comforting instead of withdrawing in disgust and distrust.

 

Eventually Dean’s stomach stopped roiling enough for him to pick his head up. He turned to look at Sam and saw that he was sitting in what had to be an uncomfortable position to try to keep pressure off his busted ankle. Now that he wasn’t laying down, Dean could also see that he was holding himself stiffly, as if he had bruised or cracked ribs on one side.

 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, voice scratchy and shot from being sick as well as his recent drinking. “Sammy, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I never wanted this. God, I’m so sorry, little brother.”

 

A spot of wetness rolled down his face and he realized, to his horror, that he was crying.

 

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam said blankly, as if at a loss for what to do. “I’m here. I’m going to help you. We’re going to get you better.”

 

“It’s not okay,” Dean rasped, “it’s my fault you got hurt. How can that ever be okay? I didn’t have your back, Sam! I have one job in this world, and I can’t even do that right anymore.”

 

“I know, Dean. It’s not your fault. You’re sick and you need help. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen,” Sam comforted, although he didn’t sound entirely convinced by what he was saying. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

Dean shook his head, wondering how he could have let himself get to this point where he could allow himself to slip on the job. He supposed he hadn’t cared if he got hurt on a hunt, but it had never crossed his mind that Sam might be the casualty of his addiction. “How?”

 

He was asking how it could possibly be okay, but Sam seemed to think he was still asking about how he had gotten hurt. In a way, he supposed he was. He was glad that his brother still knew what he needed, no matter how far he had apparently drifted and how cracked their relationship had become.

 

“You had your flask on you the whole time, do you remember? You kept drinking as we were digging. Said it helped with the pain from the work. And you just kept going, even though you’d already had a lot earlier. Guess it finally overwhelmed even your liver. One minute you were helping me dig, the next you were snoring out cold in the dirt.” Dean scowled, but didn’t interrupt. He figured that hearing the story was a punishment he deserved for allowing it to happen in the first place.

 

Sam continued gently, like he knew Dean was kicking himself, “I figured I could handle a salt-and-burn by myself, especially since we had already done the legwork and dug most of the grave. I didn’t see her coming. She was clawing at me and hitting me, then she tossed me into a headstone.”

 

He was quiet for a moment, then quirked his lips in a weak attempt at a smile. “But hey, at least no one tried to strangle me this time.” His joke fell flat and he was pensive again before continuing, “I was trying to get back to the grave to finish the job and get you out of there and she grabbed my ankle. Must not have been that bad since I carried you back to the car and put you to bed before the adrenaline wore off and I couldn’t walk on it.”

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Dean’s mind racing as he struggled to understand just how badly he had messed up this time. He had known Dad had a drinking problem during their childhoods, but never had he seen his father allow himself to get to the point where his kids got hurt because of it. Dean was worse than his father ever was, and it was a miracle that Sam was sticking with him anyway.

 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked again after the quiet became unbearable. He didn’t like how his voice came out broken and rasping. He hated that Sam could hear his weakness even when he wasn’t crying and being sick. There was no escaping it, although it had clearly gotten to the point where escaping and hiding were out of the question. Swallowing his pride and choking down his self-loathing, he whispered, “How do I get better?”

 

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled him close. It was an odd mirror of the way Dean had always held Sam growing up when he was sick or hurt. It seemed particularly wrong right now, since Sam was hurt again and worse because it was Dean’s fault, but it was comforting nonetheless.

 

“One day at a time,” he answered, big hands rubbing Dean’s back in tiny soothing circles. “You take it one step and one day at a time until you’re okay. It’ll be alright, Dean. I’m here and I’m going to make sure you get help.”

 

Sam continued to hold Dean and whisper soft reassurances until both of their eyelids began to droop, even as they sat on the cold tile of the motel bathroom floor.

 

This time when Dean felt himself starting to fall asleep, he let it happen.

 


End file.
